


Rolling Start

by 13th_Kingdom



Series: ComboBreak [1]
Category: Transformers, Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Stunticons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13th_Kingdom/pseuds/13th_Kingdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither fully belonging to Earth nor Cybertron, Drag Strip is the first of the Stunticon team to begin to feel displaced due to the nature of his birth. After sentience granted, after faction given, after the war thrust upon him, he means to define his own path rather than settling into the role assigned.</p><p>A stand-alone introduction for several more related Stunticon tales to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rolling Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saeru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeru/gifts).



The first few years of life, they said, are always the hardest.

Drag Strip didn't know who 'they' were exactly; the sound byte was uncredited and originated before he had technically been alive. Regardless, he remembered it distinctly. More than likely it had been spoken by a human, and because of that probably should be discounted straight off - yet the vibrations of that casual proclamation had stayed with him for some reason, captured as an echo in his first coat of cadmium paint. That had been on the day of his first true competition, his first moment in the sunlight, his first time to feel the starting line melt away underneath him.

That had been a good day.

Today, in comparison, was not as good.

For one thing, it was beginning to rain, and all he wanted to do now was crawl under a nice tarp and sleep through this inconvenient weather. Dead End was already beginning to drearily grouse about water spots on his fresh wax while Breakdown was fretting that none of them had put on the appropriate treads that morning. Drag Strip felt that he, of course, had the most pressing concern of anyone present, given his eternally open canopy. Normally, a bit of inconsiderate water dropping out of the sky wasn't a major issue for any of them, but the Commander had already given his decree. They were to conserve power. No force fields until the target zone.

Motormaster, although always over-charged on his supposedly Primus-given dominion over the rest of the team, was now sounding a step beyond, on the verge of giddy, continuing to needlessly bark out reminders of usual procedures and stock formations. Drag Strip surmised that this enthusiasm meant that they had an actually important mission, and a solo one at that. There weren't even any snarky jets or puny cassettes overseeing them this time. Still, from what he could gather, Motormaster's master plan was mostly just a standard 'go here, combine, break stuff' sort of operation, but this at least was one of those instances that called for initial subterfuge. That seemed to derive bonus points of a kind in the Commander's processor. This was real Tactics. This was the big time.

Drag Strip figured this was all going to Motormaster's head.

"We'll form up a tight chain for our approach. But not too tight. Nothin' suspicious. Breakdown, you're on rubber ducky duty. Dead End, rake end."

"Do I always have to go first? What if somebody sees me?" Breakdown wailed half-heartedly, kicking a toe straight through the pavement, and probably not expecting anyone to pay much attention to his complaint. As always, no one really did, so it was a wonder why he even bothered. Giving up, he let a sigh out in defeat, transforming and taking his position at point. Dead End echoed that sigh as his means of confirmation, and reversed to the rear without a word, gingerly splashing through already considerable puddles. Drag Strip couldn't help but notice Breakdown's mirror tracking every inch of Dead End's withdrawal. Nor could Drag Strip ignore the earnest blinking of just one of his brake-lights. After a moment, and probably only because he assumed no one was looking, Dead End signaled back: a brief flash, one headlight shuttered. _Pudunkle-pidinkle_. Hugs and kisses.

Those two were repulsive.

Shuddering, Drag Strip returned his attention to the Commander's nonstop rattling, which was sadly the superior entertainment of the two current choices. As his head swiveled back, he was abruptly greeted by Wildrider shoving himself up and into Drag Strip's entire field of vision. "Oh, darlin' - this means you get to drive by _me_ tonight," Wildrider exclaimed, proceeding to cycle through several dozen odd and disturbing expressions before his fun was cut short and he was shouldered aside.

"Uh wrong, shiftstick. I don't have _lights_ remember?" Drag Strip wheeled abruptly on a heel and crossed his arms. Besides the reasonable distaste to Wildrider's ever-present and unsettling advances, he was more than a little sensitive about his natural lack of optical acuity in root mode. This lack was only worsened by his altmode's inherent deficiency. Rain or no rain, he wasn't driving at night.

Motormaster stepped in to take his side, but by way of insult. "And even if it was bright enough out, ol' Glam-Glo here is a slaggin' lighthouse in and of himself, so we can't have him blowing our oh-so-secret-like approach." He hitched a thumb behind, as a singular clang rang out in familiar fashion.

Drag Strip was, admittedly, always the odd one out in the group - the one that just wouldn't mesh well with the typical highway scenery in any weather. The team had gotten around this issue already though. "I know, I know. It's the box again for me." Venting in disgust, he clambered into the double trailer, as it slammed shut at his heels, sealing him inside.

Engulfed suddenly in solitude, darkness and very welcome dryness, Drag Strip wasn't going to complain too much this time. He could relax to an extent, relax and psych himself for the upcoming engagement. Now there was nothing besides an idling semi's engine buzzing in the background, an ever-so-slight rocking on the air-ride suspension…a curious ticking on the wall…

A very incessant ticking.

Click. Click. Clickclick.

Bang. _Bang_.

Wildrider was tapping erratically from the other side of the metal enclosure, as he rasped heavily in mock-whisper, "I can come keep you company, Princess, if yer scared in there."

Ignoring the bait, Drag Strip just crouched down and slid into vehicle mode as lightly as possible - both to avoid irritating Motormaster or encouraging Wildrider's perturbing imagination any further. ::Freak. Use the comm.::

::Better yet, shut the pit up,:: the Commander suggested. This was followed by the sounds of a heavy slap and a piercing clunk and of Wildrider's horrible engine kicking up a degree - either in pain or pleasure…or probably both.

::Loser's in the penalty box.:: A sudden singsong cackle came directly to Drag Strip's personal frequency. ::The defect lost, lost, lost! Lost it all!::

Despite Wildrider's endless and tiresome banter, Drag Strip was above the effects of goading. He was the superior, no questions asked. He wouldn't fall to that level, ever.

Almost ever. There was really only one dig, one slanderously _untrue_ comment, that could make him lose his composure: the implication that he could ever lose anything at all.

And Drag Strip did lose it, right then, all six tires squealing an a single instant, as he readied within that mere second to burst cleanly through the trailer wall, no longer amenable to subtlety of their mission or caring of any temporary discomfort Motormaster might feel from the sudden rupture.

No, actually, if this hurt the Commander, then...good, nice bonus.

His force field crackled to life, a tight-fitted and searing second skin that would ensure his safe exit, bathing the interior of the trailer suddenly in pale lavender.

He put on the gas.

Motormaster's own deflector shield flared on almost instantly, an involuntary reflex to the sudden gaping hole that had been rendered straight through him. The trailer's electronic field clamped down like a guillotine on Drag Strip's spoiler, followed by automatic defenses ejecting the severed hunk recklessly. The scrapped metal ricocheted ahead where it cleaved Breakdown's hood, wedging itself there as though it were some mismatched dorsal fin. Nonchalantly, Drag Strip noted the frame of the Lamborghini slump low in shock, and then he himself was already past, bleeding from his wound in a fantastic arc behind him, horizontal to the increasing rain. Energon splattered to spray Dead End - judging by the indignant cry behind - yet Drag Strip's visual sensors were tuned only ahead, pleasantly recording a distinctly horrified twisting to Wildrider's faceplates.

Wildrider seemed…scared. Genuinely scared, too unbalanced to do anything sensible like draw his pistol or ignite his own protective energy field. In that fraction of a moment, he merely brought his forearms up, to futilely buffer the imminent collision.

Easy points.

Drag Strip's internal smile spread to his actual face as he converted in mid-air, his servos already primed to punch. He smashed straight through both car doors, cleanly through both limbs themselves, in a shower of crimson glass shards. Wildrider's amputated appendages thudded into the mud below just as the full brunt of Drag Strip's body collapsed the two of them into a rolling ball. They finally skittered to a halt after being slowed by several trees and a few boulders. Wildrider, his shielding belatedly engaged, staggered upright and aimed to kick out. He probably wasn't really aiming, just hoping to connect anywhere there might be a gap in Drag Strip's now stressed field. He stomped again and again as his thrashing yellow target swung continually out of reach, pivoting sharply across the ground via shoulder-mounted tires. Unable to stand but unrelenting, Drag Strip managed to rise to his knees, still gushing fluids from his ankles, as he leveled a recognizable barrel to a suddenly stilled Wildrider.

"Someone did _lose_ something, after all. Not that this would be of much use to you at the moment," Drag Strip laughed, in dry contrast to the increasing downpour. Technically, it was his own gun that had flown away in the scuffle, yet simultaneously he had managed to liberate the pistol from its holster at Wildrider's side. The idiot wasn't one usually to sub-space his gear, and that need to have constant access to his weapon worked against him this time. Drag Strip had to concede that sweeping explosive anti-aircraft-quality buckshot, while a bit of an over-kill, was sure to prove quite fun in this case. The pistol was fully charged, too, so there was plenty of chances to eventually wear down and fracture the shield….

Half a truck cab was thrust into his face, coming down to slam his arms into the ground, spinning him sideways. From this pinned position, Drag Strip could still peer around, past the splattered mud, to see Motormaster step squarely on the entirety of Wildrider.

::Mission aborted?:: Breakdown called out meekly.

::I should hope so. I sorely require immediate sanitation,:: Dead End was muttering, even as he transmitted their emergency pick-up codes back to base.

The rain was letting up into a light drizzle now and the thunderstorm moving on, but Drag Strip's vision was losing resolution. His arms still trapped, all he could do was vaguely inspect his damages. Contrasting smears of his own energon and organic mire ran up to his thighs in stripes that looked almost purposefully applied. Detached, he preened. He had !@#$%^&* nice legs, no matter the paint job. They were a bit nicer with feet attached, though, probably. Yes. Yes, feet were good.

Motormaster loomed from so very high above. Drag Strip could only tell it was him because there was a disapproving glint of purple optics in the dark. Plus, Drag Strip was still being stepped on, and he didn't think he missed anyone else coming in and taking over that job. "Congratulations. You win." The declaration was a very distant boom, perhaps imagined. In a motion that registered as both sudden and sedate, a sword's point shifted into reality, then turned on its side, blocking the raindrops. "Here's your prize."

The broadside of the giant blade came down heavily, and the last memory Drag Strip registered was his own pleased reflection, caught in the semi's headlights.

He had a right to be pleased. He had won.

So they said.

**Author's Note:**

> This was just a quick little upload to help ease myself back into the habit of writing (as well as validate the fact I now have an account here.) Provided I can generate the confidence to post anything further, I have an endless fount of Stunticon concepts currently in various stages of completion.
> 
> I was personally pained to include as many phrases as I did, but it seemed much more believable that DS's internal dialogue would be that truncated.
> 
>  
> 
> ~ Rolling Start = Auto racing term. One of the methods for initiating the race where the vehicles are already in motion (and led by a non-passable pace car) before the race actually begins.
> 
> ~ Rubber duck / rake = CB slang. Indicates direction/positions.
> 
> ~ Pidinkle/pudunkle = Midwestern slang from the 70's/80's. When another vehicle is spotted with either a headlight or taillight blown, the passenger in the navigator's seat awards the driver with the corresponding token of affection. A "pidinkle" grants one kiss, while a "pudunkle" incites a hug (or some other tactile semi-embrace, safety permitting.)


End file.
